We're Not Giving Up Just Yet
by Sir-Not-Appearing-In-This-Show
Summary: Modern AU. That will all happen later, after they've walked to his flat together and she's called Mama to apologize for ditching the dinner, and they're both willing to do this, to open up, because it's really not so bad to be like this with him.


**Like the majority of the things I write, this oneshot is the result of too many feels, too much caffeine, and my feeble attempts to avoid spoilers on tumblr.**

**I kind of created a tiny little AU world that I didn't fully explain, so if you have any questions feel free to ask.  
**

* * *

Sunday dinners are the worst.

Everyone's presence is required, which means Mary catches the train to arrive at the house promptly at 5:30. Edith walks from school, or, if it's particularly nasty weather, slums it with the rest of the population on the tube, and knocks at the door right around 6. Sybil slips into the dinning room at 6:10, snagging a chair closest to the door and furthest away from the still disapproving gaze of her father.

Dinner always goes the same way. There will be small talk for the first half hour or so, followed by a bout of somewhat uncomfortable silence. Granny then asks Sybil if she's looking at any universities yet, and during Sybil's answer Mary and Papa will share an annoyed look, because the answer is still "no", despite the different ways she phrases it. Then Edith will try to get a conversation going about something or other she's doing at school, but before it can take off Matthew will interrupt and ask Mary something fairly trivial in a clear attempt to gain her attention. During Mary's reply and the subsequent banter that follows Sybil will try to send her sister a sympathetic look, but most likely Edith has already resorted to slumping down in her chair and staring at her plate like a petulant child at this point.

Mama will cut off Mary and Matthew's conversation in order to open it up to everyone else, at which point it's fair game for anyone to jump in.

Sybil knows this, she has attended enough family dinners to know the exact moment where her parents will be most agreeable, and this is it.

"I'm staying at Gwen's tonight." She says, taking a sip of water to wash the lie down.

Her mother merely nods, but Papa turns his head slightly.

"Weren't you just there last week?" He says, like it's improbable for her to see the same person two weeks in a row.

Sybil resists rolling her eyes, and shrugs instead. "I don't get to see her during the day anymore."

"That's probably because she attends university." Granny mumbles to the entire table.

Her father relents anyway, maybe because he doesn't think she can get into any trouble on a university campus, or because he thinks Gwen will tell her how wonderful higher education is and Sybil will finally be swayed.

"Be back by noon tomorrow." Is the only requirement, and it's not really one at all because Sybil doubts she'll see her parents before dinner again tomorrow night, but she agrees anyway.

XXX

It's two metro stops and three blocks from her house. She counts each step on the sidewalk, listening to the click of her boots and ignoring the people passing by. She pushes open the door of the shop and the bells jingles just above her head. There's no one behind the counter in the little waiting area, as usual, so she continues on into the garage, where she's met with a smirk and a quiet laugh from Branson, which she pointedly ignores and instead hops up onto the free stool, letting her legs swing beneath her.

"What'd you tell them this time?" He asks, leaning against the side of the car. She narrows her eyes, unsure if she likes that he can read her so well already.

"I said I was going to Gwen's- Can I spend the night at yours?" She asks, suddenly worried that she should have planned this ahead of time. If he says no she can always go home and say Gwen got sick or something, but then her parents would get suspicious if she tries this again for a week, and she'd have to come up with another reason.

Honestly, she's nineteen. She should be capable of leaving her own house on her own terms.

Branson nods, arms still crossed over his chest and that stupid smirk still stuck on his face. He turns away from her, leaning back over the open front hood of someones expensive looking sports car. She can hear the smirk in his voice as he responds.

"You know, if you spend all your time here with me, and then you come back to my place, what part of that points to you being 'definitely not interested'?"

She rolls her eyes, but realizes after the action that his back is to her and the effect is lost. Sybil can remember that conversation easily, how she bluntly told him that just because she'd taken to lingering around the shop didn't mean that she fancied him, and she didn't want him to get the wrong idea because she quite liked him and wanted to be friends.

He had found that hilarious at the time, and evidently still did.

He tosses something on the bench beside her, and the _thunk_ of metal hitting wood causes her to look up at him. He raises his eyebrows, wiping his hands on a spare rag.

"Ready to go?"

XXX

She beats him four to one in darts, which means he has to pay for drinks for the rest of the night. He gives in too easily, which makes her suspect he may have lost on purpose. Sybil finds she doesn't really care, though, because she's already had probably a beer too many and is feeling lovingly light and weightless.

"Branson." She says, in a voice that sounds too firm for how she feels. He turns to her slowly, or maybe it just seems that way, his smile wide and inviting.

"Tom." She corrects herself, because they've been friends for a while and she can't keep using his last name.

He's clearly trying to hold in his laughter at how solemn and composed she's acting, and he's failing pretty miserably. She narrows her eyes and sends him a disapproving look that would surely have impressed even Mary, and he shuts up.

Neither of them say anything for a moment, and then she clears her throat and addresses him again.

"I'd like to go home."

He lets out a short, barking laugh, then covers his face for a moment before responding. "Okay, okay, yeah. Is this how you get when you're properly drunk? All commanding and whatnot?" He slips an arm around her shoulders, guiding her through the crowds of people throughout the bar. "You sound like a proper lady now."

She swats his hand away once they're outside and he tries to help her to walk; she's not even drunk, not really, she's just a little tipsy, as Granny would say, and she doesn't need any help walking to the metro stop. She does, however, slump against him once they get there, because standing up can be challenging at times. He holds onto her wrist, his larger hands wrapping over hers, but that's it.

It takes a bit to get back to his flat because it's Friday night and everyone over 16 and under 42 is out prowling about, but once he shoves against the door and it slides open she pushes her way inside, collapsing face first onto his sofa.

Branson flicks on the lights and slips off his coat, heading into the kitchen and grabbing an old box of take out before going back to the couch to check on her. She cracks open an eye as he sits down on the worn out armchair across from her, shoveling what look like noodles into his mouth.

Sybil rolls over reluctantly and stares at the ceiling, trying to make out pictures in cracks and stains like she used to when she was little.

He seems content to sit and watch over her for a bit, so she rolls onto her side to face him.

"I'm going to bed." She states, her face as blank as she can make it.

He nods. "Alright."

"Please wake me if you need anything." She says, then closes her eyes. She briefly registers that he's probably not going to need anything from her at his own flat before she dozes off.

XXX

She wakes up the next morning in his bed. She stretches out slowly, raising her arms above her head and curving her spine. She's laying on top of the covers, like he was willing to carry her from the couch to his room but couldn't be bothered to turn down the sheets.

He did slip off her shoes though, she notices as she pulls her knees up to her chest, curling into a little ball atop his mattress.

Sybil slides out of bed as softly as she can manage, her tights catching on the old wood floors as she walks across to the door. She peeks in on him in the tiny kitchen, sitting on the only stool he has that isn't broken and reading the paper at the even tinier breakfast nook.

"Morning." She mumbles, leaning her head against the doorway. He looks up somewhat surprised, but then his face splits into a grin that seems almost mocking for this early in the morning.

"You look lovely." Branson teases, standing up and shoving the stool off to the side, leaning back against the counter-top.

Sybil absentmindedly touches her hand to her head, knowing what her hair looks like when she sleeps on it and doesn't brush it in the morning. She runs a hand through it as best as she can, trying to tame down the inevitable frizz.

He smiles at her attempts, then gestures to the fridge. "Hungry?"

They've done this just enough times that the routine isn't awkward. It's familiar, actually, in a weird way, and Sybil knows she shouldn't feel that way.

"No." She manages, but the effort exerted in that one word gives her a sudden, pounding headache. He reaches into one of the cupboards and gets her a glass, filling at the tap before handing it over. She drinks greedily, and doesn't even protest when he presses two tiny white tablets into her palm. She pops them into her mouth without a sound, washing them both down with a few more sips.

He's still smirking on her when she regains her focus, and she would tell him off if she didn't feel like such shit.

"You don't normally get like this." He comments, foot scraping against the hard kitchen floor. He's right, she knows, they've gone drinking before and she's always held her own. She wonders what made last night any different.

Sybil spares a glance at the clock instead of answering. 10:47. She might as well follow her fathers warning and make it back home by noon.

She takes a moment to find her voice again, it seems to have run off with her headache.

"I should go."

Branson nods slowly, then goes to open the door for her, because he's always slightly funny like that. She smiles at him anyway, and on her way out the door she pushes up on her tip toes and presses a kiss to his cheek.

"I'll see you tomorrow." She says, and he closes the door without asking when or where. Not that he needs to, she's been coming round the shop for so long he's no doubt memorized her schedule.

Sybil debates catching a taxi, and finally settles on taking the metro again. She won't be the only hungover teenager, she figures.

XXX

Dinner is mostly quiet the next night. It's just her, Papa and Mama. Edith has class, and probably couldn't be bothered to come round even if she didn't, Mary's out at some function for some company, and Matthew's too busy doing the work that Papa gets credit for, or accompanying Mary to said event.

No one attempts to force conversation when it's just the three of them. They don't have to try to Granny's sake, or pretend like they're happy to see each other. It seems like Sybil has finally reached an understanding with her parents, or rather, with her father.

She keeps busy; charity work, volunteering, frequent trips to the library and even to visit Mary and Edith. In return, he's given up on pestering her about uni.

She doubts he's forgiven her for choosing not to go, though. Sybil remembers the utter shock in his eyes when she calmly told the dinner table, on a Sunday, too, that she wasn't planning on applying or going anywhere.

"I'm going to try to explore other options." She had explained, but that hardly mattered because obviously all her parents heard was that she wouldn't be following in Mary and Edith's footsteps and attending Oxford.

She was surprised they had let her go off with the Peace Corps, which was her Plan A, but she supposed they didn't want to have to look at her sitting around at home all day while everyone else she knew went off to school. At least with her gone they could say she had found a school in America or something. Some lie concocted to make the Crawley's seem as perfect as they tried to be.

Unfortunately they had cut off her time with the Peace Corps after a year, and told her she had to return home and find something to occupy her time here. They probably thought she would want to apply again this year, maybe she just needed some time to think about things.

Sybil had thought that they might actually be right, and all she needed was a year, but when she returned she found that she still didn't have an desire to pick a path for the rest of her life just yet.

Maybe next year, or in a few years. She just doesn't feel quite _ready_ yet. She can't possibly expect them to understand.

It has taken several uncomfortable first weeks, but finally Papa is content to pointedly ignore her for most of the day. It's certainly nicer than what she had expected out of him, she thinks.

Tonight, however, he breaks the silence for the first time in a long time.

"How was Gwen's?"

For a moment Sybil falters, her fork halfway to her mouth. She begins to frown, but then the answer comes so quickly she shakes her head as if to clear her previous thoughts.

"Fine. We stayed up watching movies."

Her mother smiles brightly, most likely envisioning the younger years when she and Gwen were still friends, and used to build forts in the living room and watch Disney films in the downstairs basement.

"You look very tired." Her father comments, giving her a patented Robert Crawley Look.

Sybil shrugs one shoulder. She prepares for an interrogation, for questions about what movies they watched and what time they went to sleep and where exactly is Gwen's dorm, but, surprisingly her father lets the subject drop, and the room falls silent once again.

XXX

The accident isn't her fault. At least, that's what she tells Branson, who circles around the front of the car with a look that tells her she ought to be worried.

She gnaws at the inside of her lip and he glances up at her, his smirk returning when he sees her evident distress

"It'll be fine. I'll need to take it to the shop, but give me a couple days and you'll be back to normal." He comes to stand beside her, squinting at the wide scratches she managed to acquire along the left side.

"So, what happened again?"

She rolls her eyes. "It came out of no where."

"The sign?"

"The _truck_." Sybil resists the urge to hit him. "I had to swerve or it was going to flatten my baby."

"And you." He grins, turning towards her.

She finds herself laughing, although she knows she should be worried about all of this. Two accidents within six months, she's not proud of that.

"How much?" She manages once her giggles have subsided.

Branson shakes his head, crossing over to inspect the front again.

"Come on." She protests, because he's not going to be ridiculous like this.

"I've got you." He says, and she wants to smack him once again.

Sybil settles for rolling her eyes, and he spots her out of the corner of his eye and rolls his right back. She sticks out her tongue in an attempt to be even more childish, but instead of retaliating he shakes his head slightly, smiling to himself secretively.

She steps up next to him, tilting her head to the side as she takes in the severely dented hood.

"Really, I can get it." She mumbles, eyes drifting over the scratched metal.

"Really," He turns to face her, and she can't help but look up at him, her eyes focusing on his. "I don't care."

They stay like that for a long moment, staring into each others eyes, which feels about as cheesy as it sounds, but for some reason she just can't bring herself to break it.

Her phone beeps and does the job for her, and she tears herself away to answer it, finding her hands shaking much to her disappointment.

Edith asks her something about Papa's function this weekend and what is she wearing and what time is it and blah blah blah. She mutters a vague response, agreeing to meet her sister before hand so they can arrive together. Edith signs off and Sybil is about to hang up when her sisters voice shouts out at her again.

"Don't forget, Mary's tied up working all day so we've got an extra space- you can bring a friend if you'd like."

Sybil's sure the request is meant to be kind, but she has to actually pause and think of any friends she dislikes enough to drag along to one of her fathers boring benefit dinners.

She slips her phone back into her pocket and looks up to see Branson smirking at her once again, and she has her answer.

XXX

He looks quite ridiculous in a suit, and she tells him so. He tugs at the collar nervously and actually looks so put out that she finds herself apologizing.

"It's not too bad." She confesses, straightening his tie for him. He looks skeptical.

"At least there's free food." That really is the best part of these stupid dinners. Her father will make some grand speech and thank the investors for donating to the company once again, and how the he is so grateful for their time and effort and then Mama will chime in and add how much it means to the _entire_ Crawley family, although the chances of the entire family actually being there at the time are slim.

Branson is about to respond, no doubt to tell her to stop placating him, when Sybil hears quickening footsteps behind them and spins around to face her sister.

"Hello, Edith." She offers a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek; they've never been as close as she and Mary, but nonetheless Sybil doesn't like how little she's seen of her sister since Edith went off to uni.

Edith gives her a bright smile, but her eyes drift off to the man standing behind her. "Who's this?" She asks, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

Sybil braces herself, and turns around to smile at Branson, who looks a bit like he's just eaten something terrible.

"This is Tom." She catches his eye when she says his first name and he gives her a small smile. She'd feel weird introducing him as Branson to her sister. They've known each other for a while, it's time they've properly escalated to first name basis.

"Hello." Branson sticks out his hand and Edith shakes it quickly, her smile polite, if a bit forced.

"I didn't know Sybil was bringing anyone." She responds, releasing Branson's hand to reach up and gently adjust the bow in her hair.

"You _told_ me to." Sybil begins to protest, because if Edith is going to get upset that she brought a _boy_ instead of one of her friends from school she's probably going to hit something.

"Yes, but you never listen to me." Edith and Branson share a grin, and Sybil frowns slightly.

"Come on, we're going to be late." Her sister begins to pull her in the direction of the banquet hall, and Sybil reaches out to grab Branson's hand and tug him along.

XXX

Papa's speech is shorter than last years, but it might just seem like that because Mary isn't whispering condescending comments in her ear every two minutes. Servers bring out the appetizers while the speech is still going on, and Branson leans over to ask her what the hell is sitting in front of him.

Sybil studies the little blobs for a moment before deciding that they're some sort of shrimp puff. He picks one up and inspects it for several moments, turning it around like it's going to get up and jump right out of his hand. She finally reaches out and grabs it away from him, popping it in her mouth in one movement. His eyes widen, and then he starts laughing so loudly he has to clap a hand over his mouth to avoid the entire table hearing. Even so, Papa sends a disapproving look their way and Sybil knows the rest of the evening isn't going to be smooth sailing.

After Papa finishes and Mama adds her two cents, they're finally free to dig in to the food. Sybil piles as much as she can on her plate, because as wonderful as Mrs. Patmore's cooking is, whoever does the catering for these events has been sent from heaven.

Mama comes over halfway through the meal and kneels down next to her chair, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before turning to Branson.

"You must be Sybil's friend, it's so lovely to meet you." She shakes his hand eagerly.

As if Sybil had ever mentioned him to her mother before. She resists the urge to groan.

"Tom Branson." Branson plays along willingly enough, or maybe he actually thinks she talks him up at home. She hopes not. Who knows what that would do to his already too-big ego.

"Where are you from, Tom?" Sybil's not surprised Mama's engaging in small talk; she always was a much better actor than Papa, who won't even try to pretend to be interested in things he doesn't care about. At least Mama makes the effort, she muses.

Sybil lets her mind wander as they do a brief back-and-forth. Useless, meaningless comments about things. The weather is brought up at some point. She's impressed with Branson's ability to talk about nothing nearly as well as the rest of her family.

"How do you know Sybil?" Somehow comes up last, but Sybil can tell Mama's been sitting on it for a few minutes.

She takes a sip of wine before answering.

"Tom fixed my car last... April, after I had that accident near the school."

"Which wasn't her fault, right?" Branson chimes in, his tone teasing. She glares at him for a moment, which probably doesn't have its intended effect because he only smiles wider.

"Oh really?" Mama asks, but suddenly the conversation has shifted. "How interesting."

Sybil doesn't want to deal with the inevitable awkwardness that will ensue now that Mama has realized her daughter brought a mechanic to a Crawley family event, so she clears her throat and stands up, gesturing towards Branson.

"Sorry, Mama, we're just going to take a quick step outside."

Cora stands up as well, grasping her daughters hand for a moment before letting it go.

"Hurry back, your father will want to talk to you."

Sybil bites back a response and leads Branson across the crowded room, her hand wrapped tight around his wrist like a parent drags a misbehaving child along after them. She can feel her mothers eyes on her back as they make their way into the hall.

She keeps dragging him down two flights of stairs, too hurried to bother with the elevator, and out the door of the building. The temperature seems to have dropped considerably since they went in, which is surprising because it's still light out. He stands dutifully behind her while she roots around in her purse for a cigarette, a habit she nearly kicked quite a bit ago. She doesn't know why she suddenly feels so stifled, so suffocated.

She can't find one, so she leans back against the building with a huff, feeling the goosebumps rise up on her arms. He still stands just off to her side, hands clasped behind him, looking equal parts confused and amused by her actions.

"I hate it sometimes."

Sybil doesn't realize she's spoken the words aloud until he turns to face her, his face surprisingly devoid of any mocking looks. She closes her eyes, tilting her head back until it bumps the cold brick.

"I just can't do it sometimes. They're so stuck stuck in _them_ and the company... And I _know_ it's important I just want them to see that _other_ things are important too." Sybil's vaguely aware that he doesn't have a clue what she's talking about; they don't really discuss their families, either of them, their almost relationship is weird enough without adding in her relatives.

But then she just _had_ to bring him to this, of course she did. She had been doing such a good job of keeping them both separate, and then she decided to screw it all up for... What, exactly? What had today achieved?

Sybil cracks open her eyes to find Branson leaning against the wall next to her, arms crossed over his chest. He's staring at her with a familiar look on his face, the one he wears when he thinks she's not looking. It's something close to adoration, she thinks.

"Let's go." She says, suddenly. He quirks an eyebrow, and she begins to smile.

"Let's get out of here."

XXX

He takes off his tie at the pub but he still looks ridiculous in that suit. She slides in close to him on the booth, increasingly aware that they both look odd in formal clothes against a backdrop of jean clad university students. The place was only a block or two walk, and she's grateful for it. She's never been gifted with Mary's ability to wear impractical clothes for extended periods of time.

They both order beers, but Sybil drinks only a sip or two of hers before she just asks for a water. He doesn't say anything about it, but she catches the teasing glint in his eye.

He doesn't ask her about what she said earlier, about her family. She's glad. They'll have plenty of time to talk about that later, when she's sprawled across his couch eating what's left in his fridge and with her feet in his lap. She'll tell him why she didn't want to go to uni; it wasn't that she didn't _want_ to study (she has a whole spiel about higher education and how especially important it is for women that she'll give him much later), it's that it stopped being about _her_ to Mama and Papa and became about following after Mary and Edith and the whole blessed Crawley family and she _couldn't_.

She'll tell him about Patrick and how Papa still hasn't gotten over his death, and about Mary and Matthew's slightly messed up but inevitably sweet relationship, and how _weird _her family is at times but how despite it all, she knows she loves them.

That will all happen later, after they've walked to his flat together and she's called Mama to apologize for ditching the dinner, and they're both willing to do this, to open up, because it's really not so bad to be like this with him, she'll realize.

For now Sybil traces the edge of her glass, and looks up at him with a smile.

Branson smirks right back at her, as he always does.

She leans over and kisses him, square on the mouth.


End file.
